The Death of Me
by SerenityJane
Summary: Fifty years after his own time, John Ellis took his own life. Not alone, though, because Jack knew there were many ways to go, and dying alone was worse than dying with company. Ianto, however, doesn't see it that way.


Ianto had convinced Jack that they should take his car for the night. Or rather, he had politely refused to go anywhere if Jack insisted on taking the SUV. The Captain might like the attention their vehicle attracted, but Ianto preferred to go unnoticed. If he had had his way, the SUV would have been traded in for a less conspicuous model long ago.

He had steadfastly ignored Jack's protestations that the valet would take one look at it and roll laughing into the street. It was a moot point, after all, because no civilian valet was going anywhere near his car.

Ianto had made a number of . . . modifications . . . to the Audi A4 saloon, and he wanted to relax tonight, not have to concoct a story to explain why he had a small arsenal of firearms and light artillery concealed beneath the back seat. He knew the likelihood of the cache being found was rather remote. That was irrelevant - Ianto was a devout believer in Sod's Law.

A belief he discovered was fully justified when he had become tired of watching Jack primp and gone up to the reception area to collect his car keys . . .

They had used the tracking beacon to locate the car, and found it not far from the Hub. John Ellis had gone home, after a fifty year absence.

When Jack had gone after the former Sky Gypsy passenger, Ianto had remained at the base, wondering why he hadn't seen this coming. He had known John was up to something, when he caught him behind the reception desk. There had been a slightly guilty look in his eye, a tiny tremor in his voice as he murmured both apology and excuse in the same breath; a dull, grinding despair lurking beneath the stiff exterior. Ianto knew it well - it was an emotion as familiar to him as an old pair of shoes, worn in and comfortable, though it seemed to be growing more constrictive of late. He blamed Jack.

An hour passed without word from either of the men. Ianto sighed, called the restaurant and cancelled their reservations. He didn't bother to reschedule - the Wolbex migration was due to begin the next day, and there would be no more nights off for some time.

Resigned to staying in tonight, he changed into one of his working suits and clipped his phone to the waistband, in case Jack called needing something. Not that he expected any assistance would be required, but Ianto had discovered the hard way that Fate was never one to avoid temptation.

He moved down into to the bowels of the Hub, down a myriad of passageways he had no doubt the Minotaur would feel quite at home in, to his destination, a cavernous, caustic-smelling room containing two rows of fourteen squat, steaming vats filled with roiling acidic and basic solutions, their contents labeled by neat hand-written printing on white, stained and half-eaten paper signs attached to their ridged sides.

He turned to the small station by the doorway, taking a heavy black leather apron down from its hook and pulling it down his head. He reached his arms back and fastened the strings securely. Next came the thick, protective goggles and the toxin-filtering mask. He gathered a palmful of powder from an open container, rubbing it over his hands to absorb any sweat, then slipped the white-dusted appendages inside the thick leather gauntlets, black to match the apron (one of Jack's innovations, of course). He flexed his fingers and arms, the leather creaking as it was bent.

Ianto then walked down the aisle created by the looming vats, over to the organic waste container that ran the entire length of the far wall. He reached in and pulled out something that looked like a giant red lobster claw attached to an almost-human arm, smeared with vile streaks of purple. He surveyed the remaining contents of the bin with something approaching dismay. How had he let Jack talk him in to going out, with this much work to be done?

He set to work, an effective distraction from his worry about what was wrong with John, what condition Jack would be in if something happened to the man that he could have prevented. An effective, as well as useful, distraction. The corpses weren't going to dissolve themselves, after all.

"Chitinous substance," Ianto murmured to himself. "low to medium strength acid, vat three." He strode over to the appropriate vat and slid the limb carefully into the liquid, ignoring the furious hiss as the claw was eaten away.

Two hours later, the container hadn't even been half-emptied, the rubber seals on the protective glasses were attempting to chafe his face raw, and the gloves were turning grey after shielding his skin from repeated splash-back.

And Jack still hadn't called.

He stripped the gear off cautiously, careful not to let the acid-splattered material touch his skin, and quickly decontaminated the leather, before re-hanging it by the door. He re-locked the door behind him (because one of the useless-anywhere-else pieces of information he had picked up at Torchwood was that pterodactyls were quite handy at opening un-locked doors), then unclipped his mobile, checking for messages. Nothing.

Ianto did a quick sweep of the hub in case Jack had come back whilst he had been working, then checked the satellite feed to see if his car was still in the same position. It was, but now the SUV was also visible on the scan, parked not ten metres distant from his car.

Eyes fixed on the computer screen, he blindly dialed Jack's number. Five rings, but no answer.

"They might have gone down to the pub," he thought to himself, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. Jack would have known he'd worry. He'd have called.

Ianto collected all the items he was most likely to need, then packed them into a large briefcase. It probably would have been more practical to take one of the large black sports bags, but a passerby seeing a man in a suit carrying one would undoubtedly take notice, and possibly think concealed weapons, or body parts, or Mafia. Yes, it was Cardiff, not New York, but stranger things had happened.

He had the taxi pick him up along the road outside the Plas. The driver looked slightly askance at him, doubtless thinking it odd to be collecting a suited man carrying a rather large briefcase from the deserted Millennium Centre. The man would likely remember him, unfortunate but it couldn't be helped.

He stopped the taxi a block away from Mr Ellis' former residence, and waited until the driver turned a corner before walking further up the street.

Ianto breathed a sigh of relief to see the SUV still parked alongside the curb before the old-fashioned, lone-standing red brick building. It meant that Jack was probably still in the area, and he now had access to the equipment stored there if it was needed.

The satellite imagery had shown Ianto's car positioned perpendicular to the SUV, approximately seven metres away . . . seeing as it was not in the street, he assumed that it was parked in the building's garage.

There did not seem to be anyone in the house, and no answer when he knocked. The neighbourhood was quiet, the only sound coming from the occasional passing car, the sound of a car idling. Trying the door-handle, he was not surprised to find it unlocked. Jack was not one to lock a door behind him after breaking in.

Ianto, however, was.

The house was filled with old-fashioned but cheaply-made furniture, in surprisingly good condition considering its age. It was only a small place, and it smelled rather musty, as if no-one had lived there for quite some time.

A quick glance into each of the rooms showed that the house was clear. Walking back to the hallway, Ianto stepped through the adjoining door that led to the garage, where the car engine was still grumbling quietly.

What he saw first was his car, parked in the tiny garage, below precariously balanced shelves holding paint-dripped tins and bundles of old newspapers. The next thing that registered was the silhouette of a head visible above the front driver's seat, lolling slightly to the side.

The following snapshot was of the rolled-up tie shoved into the exhaust pipe.

Ianto dropped his case and ran around to the driver's side of the car, almost tripping over something, left unidentified in his haste. Finding the door locked he grabbed one of the paint-tins from the shelf and broke the back door window, to avoid showering John with the shards. He stripped off his jacket and wrapped it about his arm, and stretched it through the gap between the seat and the car-frame, straining to reach the lock. He heard it click, and withdrew his arm too hurriedly, hissing viciously as a remaining jagged blade opened up a gash along his inner arm where the jacket had fallen loose.

Ignoring the pain, he yanked open the driver's side door, switched off the ignition and tore out the car keys, throwing them aside, out of reach of the car's occupant.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned in to the carbon monoxide-drenched interior to undo John's seatbelt, and swore internally when he caught sight of a second body in the passenger seat. Jack, skin ashen, lips drawn back to reveal white teeth, his protruding tongue pink against the bleached enamel, fingers clawed and bloody. And still. Very, very still.

He forced himself to ignore Jack for the moment, released the catch and heaved John out of reach of the more heavily poisoned atmosphere inside the car (his car), carefully laying him down on the paint-and-oil-stained concrete.

Is carbon monoxide heavier than oxygen? Ianto wondered, as he frantically searched for a breath, for a pulse, for anything. He can't remember, would it rise or fall, be thicker on the ground or in the air?

It didn't matter, he learned shortly. Not to John, anyway.

He was too late.

The skin was clammy to the touch, cold and oily, like the smog-laden air had condensed against his skin.

The man's lips were blue, skin delicate and paper-white, mouth slack and drool-encrusted, the bruises of lividity already showing where the un-pumped blood had pooled.

He was always too late.

The car tilted at an unlikely angle as he stood. 'Vertigo,' he thought. 'Typically the first symptom suffered after inhaling a large concentration of carbon monoxide gas."

Ianto tried to keep his breaths shallow as he pulled himself upright, bracing himself against the car. "There must be a large concentration for it to have effected me this quickly. Never should have filled the tank the other day . . ."

He grabbed his paint-tin and worked his way back around the car.

"The next symptom will be the headache,' he thought, and that thought was quickly followed by a sharp ache behind his right eye. Not unexpected, considering recent events. 'soon to be followed by exhaustion, as a result of the body slowly becoming starved of oxygen, and then there's the loss of control of the bowels, and other pleasantries that occur as a result of death.'

He suppressed a oxygen-wasting sigh of relief when he reached the passenger side door. A spark of common sense made him try the handle first, and sure enough it opened, spilling Jack, who had been braced against it, onto the hard concrete. Ianto grabbed the larger man's arms and, after a moment's thought, dragged him over the ground in the direction of the doorway connecting the garage to the house, rather than the large fold-up door leading outside. The larger door would have cleared the gas quickly, but he did not want anyone to witness Jack's unique talent. Retcon use had doubled in the past year, and the budget would only cover so much.

He pulled Jack further down the carpeted hallway, adding rug-burn to what he supposed would be called concrete-burn, until he was clear of the door, then closed it behind them. Feeling incredibly drowsy, he pressed his back against the wall and slid down, until he was sitting by Jack's side. Ianto breathed deeply, in an attempt to clear the poison from his system. After a moment he reached out a lethargic hand and traced a finger along the Captain's red-smeared fingers. The blood was no longer flowing freely, not as it had been before, drenching the man's trousers. It was now congealing thickly against the open wounds. Jack's heart had stopped.

Focusing his bleary eyes carefully, he could see something stuck under his fingernails. Black . . . he scraped a small shard free and held it close to his face. It looked like the hard, plastic material used on the inside of car doors.

There was a choked gasp from the corpse lying against his thigh, and a sudden spasm had Jack sitting upright, albeit briefly. A quick twitch of Ianto's leg ensured the man's head encountered soft (and bruisable) flesh rather than the thin carpet when he fell back down.

After an unknown period of time, unknown because time seemed to be bobbing around like a kite in an uncertain breeze, and Ianto didn't even know if that metaphor made sense but under the circumstances he was just glad to be able to think of one at all, Ianto spoke.

'How many times did you die in there, Sir?' he asked, and was surprised how detached his own voice sounded. He wasn't even sure why he was asking. It didn't really matter all that much, he thought tiredly, continuing to breath deeply.

Jack's blue eyes flickered open, and he peered up at Ianto, as if he were having trouble focusing. A second later they rolled around, scanning his surroundings. Ianto couldn't decide whether it was sarcasm or a scan of his surroundings. His thoughts were hazy and blunt, incapable of interpreting subtleties of expression. Not that Jack was subtle.

"It got a little blurry after the first three," Jack replied, his voice raspy and barely audible, quite ruining his attempt at offhandedness.

Ianto watched in dull fascination as small beads of crimson began to appear all over Jack's pale skin. He trailed a lazy finger along his limp arm, and it came away stained.

His action drew Jack's attention to the phenomena, and his eyes widened. "What . . . " His body trembled for a moment then stilled, and he glared down at it, as if trying to force his unresponsive muscles to move from sheer force of will.

"Breathe as deeply as you can." Ianto advised, tone flat. The haziness was fading, and he was beginning to remember why it mattered. "You need to replace the oxygen you lost."

"What's with the bleeding?" Jack asked, sounding faintly curious and not at all concerned. He flicked a finger, splattering a small design of blood dots on the cream-coloured wallpaper.

This attitude knocked Ianto right out of the carbon-monoxide-induced apathy he had been experiencing.

"I suspect this is your body's unorthodox attempt to clear the toxins from your bloodstream." Ianto kept his tone even, but inwardly the anger was growing, as he stared at the blood almost running from Jack's pores, soaking the off-white carpet. "Unfortunately, whatever it is that's attempting to heal you appears to be too stupid to realize that humans need blood to live." His voice at the end of that sentence had been louder than he intended. Ianto paused for a moment to calm down, then fell back on his lecturing tone, the one he found most effective dealing with children, idiots, government officials and Owen. "Inhalation of high concentrations of carbon monoxide gas for even a short period of time causes the body to stop circulating oxygen, as the carbon monoxide takes it place on the hemoglobin contained in the red blood cells. As the body needs oxygen to fuel most of its activities, including thought, speech, muscle movement and living " he said in his most sarcastic voice, "it would seem as though not a lot of planning went into this temporary suicide attempt of yours."

Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Ianto continued before he could get a word in. "Unless of course it was your intention to remain trapped inside my car beside a corpse, being poisoned by the atmosphere and dying, then waking up and being unable to escape because there was only enough oxygen left in your bloodstream to fuel the muscles of your fingers so you could scrabble helplessly against the car door, then dying again and repeating the entire process over and over until I got concerned enough to come and find you." Ianto took a deep, calming breath, and the anger faded as he looked down at Jack, blue eyes vulnerable and stark against the red surrounding them. He reached behind him and drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, then began to wipe the blood away, a laughable effort considering the volume of liquid and the limited absorption qualities of the embroidered cotton. He ignored Jack's weak protests, consisting of muscle twitches in the limbs and fierce grimaces. "Yes," Ianto said, gentling his voice as he continued, "if that was your intention I would say your well thought-out and executed plan was a success."

The blood flow began to subside, leaving Jack's skin even paler under its red coating than it had been before. Near blood-less, but alive.

"He was determined," the man said quietly. "John wanted to die, and I tried, but I couldn't talk him out of it." Jack snorted, a weak sound that Ianto silently likened to a kitten sneezing. "So much for the infamous 'Jack Harkness' charm, hey, Ianto?" Ianto said nothing, just continued wiping the blood away as Jack's eyes grew distant, looking at but not seeing the ceiling above.

When the silence dragged on for too long, he cupped the other man's jaw in his hand, running a finger along a cheekbone still slightly stained.

The touch caused Jack's mind returned from wherever it had gone, and he gave Ianto his full attention once more.

"I couldn't let him go alone." The terrible vulnerability was still there, but Ianto saw no apology in Jack's expression, just exhaustion and pain.

Ianto looked up, away from those old, tired eyes. He stared at the crimson droplets that now decorated the otherwise pristine wall, slowly turning into streaks as gravity pulled them down, and combed his fingers through Jack's hair, the man's head still resting on his knee. Unable to move, or unwilling, Ianto didn't know.

"You're going to run out of lives one day," Ianto replied, and he wasn't entirely sure that that wasn't what Jack wanted.

He bit his lip to keep silent the despairing words that wanted to follow.

'What would I do then?'


End file.
